Bal Kanda
Analysis
Valmiki’s Ramayana—we all know it from a historical viewpoint; we’ve read it, and we’ll keep reading it. But behind the story we see, what knowledge is hidden there? I’m going to try to open that knowledge before you. Let me also tell you: at least twelve years ago I worked on Valmiki’s Ramayana, and that work—done from a philosophical-essence perspective—was published as a book ten years ago. Many people have reflected on it. And now, on this platform, I will present that same essential analysis. For me, there won’t be anything especially new to do, because the book is already published. It’s just that when we write, we keep things brief, and in a book there isn’t repetition—so things stay condensed.
So from today we begin the “essential bhajan” (philosophical contemplation) of Valmiki’s Ramayana. The first episode is: the vision of the krauñcha (crane) couple by Sage Valmiki. This is a prologue, and through it there is an indication— a pointer—toward the central subject of the Ramayana. How does it point?
Now, because we’re going to open it word by word, as we look closely, we’ll see how this prologue hints toward the Ramayana’s subject.
Chapters one and two were already read aloud by the respected Ojha-ji. I will only recap very briefly—because after eight or ten days pass, parts slip from memory—then we’ll try to understand it from the lens of knowledge. When the great sage Valmiki asked Narada, “Who is the most excellent man in the world today?” Narada, considering Rama to be the most excellent, described his entire character and then departed for the heavenly realm. Right after Narada left, Valmiki went to the bank of the Tamasa river, not far from the Ganga. Seeing that the Tamasa’s ghats were free of mud, Valmiki wished to bathe at that sacred ford and told his disciple Bharadvaja, “Give me my bark garment.” Valmiki took the bark cloth from Bharadvaja and began observing the beauty of the great forest. In that vast forest, a beautiful pair of krauñcha birds, intoxicated by desire, were wandering about. Then a nishada, an enemy of creatures without reason, shot the male krauñcha with an arrow right before the sage’s eyes. The female krauñchī, seeing her husband killed, was deeply distressed, and the sage too was filled with compassion at the sight of the male bird’s plight. The compassionate sage, addressing the nishada, said: “O nishada! For hundreds of years may you not attain honor, because you killed one of the krauñcha pair.” Reflecting on the words that had spontaneously left his mouth, the sage bathed at the ford and returned to his hermitage. Absorbed in that incident, Valmiki was then visited by Brahma. Valmiki gave Brahma ideal hospitality, and Brahma was seated. Understanding the sage’s state of mind, Brahma told him at that very moment to compose the story of Rama—the very account he had heard from Narada. We’ve already read this in detail. Now let us see what this story is saying.
This story is entirely symbolic, and we will only grasp its intent if we understand each symbol one by one. First, let’s take Narada—Devarṣi Narada. In our Puranic literature, Narada is a key figure. He moves through Vaikuntha and throughout the three worlds, and because he carries a benevolent, grace-filled awareness, he shows up before any divine or demonic person whenever needed. When does he appear? When a person needs to decide, or is anxious or dejected. We’ve read the Purāṇas, the Ramayana, the Mahabharata—we’ve seen that Narada roams the three worlds, and whenever someone needs him, he arrives and offers a solution. Here too he came to Valmiki. Valmiki was thinking, “What should I do? What is my duty?” Narada arrived and said, “Write the character of Rama.”
Now we must see: what is this word Narada? Narada is not a person—this we must first understand. In our scriptures, to indicate a particular state of consciousness, that state is personified. So the figure called Narada—made into a human form—what specific state of consciousness does he represent?
Let’s look at the etymology of the word Narada. It is formed from na and rada. We all know na means “not,” and rad comes from the Sanskrit root meaning “to break into pieces,” to fragment. So na + rad: “not fragmented,” “not divided.” What does that imply? Integral consciousness. There is a fragmented mode of consciousness—mind thinking one thing, intellect another, and something else churning in the subconscious. That’s our usual state: split into parts. And then there is whole consciousness—the mind, intellect, and inner faculty aligned in a single stream. When the same subject runs through body, mind, intellect, and heart, that is called integral consciousness.
Ordinary people rarely stay in that integral state; our mind is restless, our intellect unsteady, thoughts keep changing. But one whose mind is steady and pure can contemplate a single subject firmly. When such single-pointed contemplation becomes strong, the integral consciousness within—here called Narada—is naturally drawn to it and strengthens that very contemplation. So Narada’s “arrival” does not mean a person came from outside. It means your own integral consciousness rises up and reinforces the thought you are dwelling on.
Valmiki was contemplating: “Who is the most excellent person now?” Narada came—meaning, his own integral consciousness came forth and strengthened that contemplation. Rama was already in Valmiki’s mind as the supreme person. His mind was steady and pure. Who gave support to this? Who gave it power? His own integral consciousness. In modern psychology, we might call this the law of attraction. It seems that the figure of Narada points to this very principle: when someone contemplates a subject firmly, their consciousness is attracted to it and makes it stronger.
In the Purāṇas there are many stories where Narada goes to demons as well as to gods—he went to Kaṁsa, to Dhruva, to Valmiki, and many others. What does that mean? If Narada goes to Kaṁsa, it means Kaṁsa is intensely thinking a negative thought; his integral consciousness is also negative, and that negative consciousness gets attracted and strengthens that negative thought. If someone like Dhruva is engaged in positive contemplation, his integral consciousness—being positive—rises and strengthens his positive thought. Here, Valmiki is thinking of composing Rama’s story, so his integral consciousness—suffused with that very idea—surfaces and gives him direction: “Describe Rama’s character.” Thus when the story says Narada came and narrated Rama’s life to Valmiki, it means Narada is not an external person; it is our own integral consciousness emerging to fortify our contemplation.
Next, the story says Valmiki went to the Tamasa river. What is Tamasa? It is the river of ignorance. What is our greatest inner ignorance? “I am the body.” We are firmly lodged in this body-identity—deha-chaitanya. This river of body-consciousness flows within us. Valmiki saw this within himself with attention. To attend to this body-consciousness within is what the story calls going to the bank of the Tamasa. So it is not that Valmiki physically walked to an outer river; the knowledge behind the story is that he observed the current of body-identity flowing within.
The text says Valmiki saw the ghats of the Tamasa free from mud and wished to bathe at that excellent ford. Why call it an excellent ford? Here, “mud-free ghat” or “sacred ford” refers to the remembrance of one’s true nature—the Self. We do live in body-consciousness, but we also, at times, remember our real nature. When we study or sit quietly, we sense: this body is my instrument; but who am I? I am the conscious power—the Self—that uses this instrument. That remembrance is the “mud-free ghat,” the sacred place to bathe. To bathe here means to remain established in remembrance of the Self even while living in body-consciousness.
Next, Valmiki took his bark garment (valkala) from his disciple Bharadvaja. First, what does Bharadvaja mean? It is a Vedic term: splitting the compound as bharat + vāja. Bharat means “to bear/sustain,” and in the Vedas three terms appear—ṛbhu (knowledge-power), vibhu (feeling-power), and vāja (action-power). So vāja is kriyā-śakti, the power that carries action into conduct. This action-power exists in everyone; in Valmiki too. He asks his own action-power—symbolized as Bharadvaja—to give him the valkala.
What is valkala? Split as val + kala—but remembering that Puranic texts often interchange ‘r’ and ‘l’. So val (read var) means excellent, and kala (read kara) means hand/action—karma. Thus valkala means excellent action; it’s called a “garment” because we should wear or adopt noble action like a garment. So, receiving the valkala from Bharadvaja means: the steady mind of Valmiki adopts a resolve for excellent conduct by engaging his inner action-power.
Then the story says Valmiki wandered in a vast forest. Symbolically, this is not a physical woods by the Tamasa, but the vast cycle of creation—the four yugas: Satya, Treta, Dvapara, and Kali. To wander there means to contemplate the cosmic cycle.
While contemplating, Valmiki sees a krauñcha pair overcome by passion. The word mithuna means a pair. Which pair? Self (ātman) and body (instrument)—like “I am the conscious Self, and I have a body as a tool.” That’s the true pair in each person. Why use the symbol krauñcha? Because the root krauñch carries the sense of bending/turning, i.e., change. In Satya Yuga, or when our awareness is higher, we say, “I am the Self; the body is my instrument.” But in Kali Yuga that correct pairing gets twisted: “I am the body, and the soul is mine.” The term krauñcha signals this reversal due to ignorance.
The nishada then shoots an arrow and kills the male krauñcha; the female wails. Why “nishada” and not simply “hunter”? Ni (prefix) means downward/low, and sad means to sit. So nishada is to sit in a low state of consciousness, to remain at the gross level—identifying only with the physical body (annamaya-kośa). This ignorance is the nishada. The killing of the male bird symbolizes the forgetting of the Self (puruṣa). Of course, the Self is deathless; “killing” here means we lose awareness of our true nature. When Self-remembrance is lost, the mind–intellect (linked with the “female,” i.e., prakṛti/body) becomes impure and ego-bound—full of “I and mine.” That impurity brings sorrow—hence the female krauñchī’s lament.
Thus, as Valmiki contemplates the vast cycle, he sees that in Kali Yuga Self-remembrance is lost, and the mind–intellect gets sullied and sorrowful. He then curses the nishada: “May you not be honored for a long time—only briefly.” This doesn’t mean harming a person; śāpa (curse) here means “this will certainly happen.” In Kali Yuga, ignorance will be honored, while knowledge won’t be; in Satya and Treta, the reverse is true.
Back at the hermitage, Valmiki is pensive: “What is my duty that will bring me peace?” Earlier, through Bharadvaja and the valkala, there was already a hint that Valmiki was determining his right action. Narada (integral consciousness) had also nudged him: “Compose Rama’s story.” Finally, Brahma appears. Is Brahma a person? We know the Supreme has three powers: creation, preservation, and dissolution. We’ve named them Brahma, Vishnu, and Shiva. Brahma’s “arrival” means that beyond the individual mind (vyaṣṭi-manas), there is a collective mind (samaṣṭi-manas)—the mind of existence itself. Our individual mind creates thoughts; but when a person firmly resolves a righteous duty, the collective mind supports and strengthens that resolve. So Brahma’s coming means the mind of existence fortifies Valmiki’s inner decision to compose Rama’s life.
Putting the symbols together: four factors caused the creation of the Ramayana.
Narada—the law of attraction / integral consciousness that strengthens firm contemplation.
Avidyā (Ignorance)—recognized through contemplating the vast “forest” of creation; seeing how in Kali the true pairing is reversed.
The “killing” of the male krauñcha—the loss of Self-remembrance, which makes the mind–intellect impure and sorrowful.
Brahma—the collective creative power that comes to reinforce the chosen duty.
This prologue signals the Ramayana’s central theme even before the narrative begins: in Kali Yuga, the correct alignment—“I am the Self; the body is my instrument”—has been bent. We must straighten it back through Self-remembrance and live seeing the body as a tool. The Ramayana is about abiding in Self-knowledge (becoming ‘Rama-like’) and, from that stance, overcoming the “demons” lodged in our subconscious—here symbolized as Rāvaṇa, Kumbhakarṇa, and the many rākṣasas of Laṅkā. When those inner enemies are destroyed, Rama’s coronation happens within—firm establishment in the Self. At the beginning there is Self-knowledge, and at the end there is Self-knowledge too; but initially it’s fragile and easily shaken by inner negativity. Final “coronation” is when the subconscious (Laṅkā) is emptied of those tendencies and Self-knowledge stands unshakable.